


Tincture

by neveralarch



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: (but only barely), Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-17 23:34:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21951481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neveralarch/pseuds/neveralarch
Summary: Childermass was ill. His nose was clogged, his head felt like it was full of cotton, and his throat was full of sandpaper. If he was a wealthy man, he might have rolled over in bed and written the day off as a loss.Unfortunately, there were no days off from being Mr. Gilbert Norrell's right hand.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 41
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Tincture

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notkingyet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notkingyet/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide! This is a treat that got a little long - hope you enjoy :)

Childermass was ill. His nose was clogged, his head felt like it was full of cotton, and his throat was full of sandpaper. If he was a wealthy man, he might have rolled over in bed and written the day off as a loss.

Unfortunately, Childermass was not a wealthy man, and there were no days off from being Mr. Gilbert Norrell's right hand. He might ask the evening off, if he felt especially pitiful. He had no particular confidence that Mr. Norrell would give it.

Childermass levered himself out of bed and performed the necessities of the morning. He tried a small healing spell, though he'd not located a spell yet that would cure the common cold. 

It had no effect whatsoever. Childermass cursed, coughed, and uttered further blasphemy against both our savior and the Raven King. Then he blotted his nose with an elderly and dirty handkerchief and went to work.

\---

"—And tell Lascelles that he is on no account to publish any articles by that incompetent—" Mr. Norrell cut himself off with a frown. "Childermass, are you crying? Surely not."

"Surely not," agreed Childermass, and blotted his nose for the third or fourth time in the last quarter of an hour. "I have a cold, I think."

Mr. Norrell shrank back. "What are you touching? Are you touching my books?"

"I am touching my own pen, and my own paper," said Childermass. "And soon I will go out to retrieve some of your newly-acquired books from the auction house. If you will lend me Davey as a pack mule, I will promise not to touch that precious cargo either."

"Good. Of course you can have Davey. Take the carriage too—it might rain, and I don’t want you to try sheltering my books under your coat."

“I will gladly take the carriage,” said Childermass, though normally he would rather walk under his own power or ride with a horse under his own command. He was an independent sort of person, and he didn’t entirely trust carriages to take him where he would like to go.

Today, however, he was sick. Today, he would doze in the carriage, and awake only long enough to deliver his message to Lascelles (replete with enough coughing to be sure to infect the detestable ingrate), and to requisition the books from the auction house. He’d tell Davey to be careful to give him a smooth ride.

Soothed by their precautions and Childermass’ failure to fall into a seizure or vomit on the floor, Mr. Norrell returned to his previous position, sat comfortably in his favorite chair. "I suppose," he said, with the air of a man feeling carefully across an old bridge in the dark, "that you will need... rest?"

Childermass smiled under his handkerchief. What would Mr. Norrell do if he said yes? What would Mr. Norrell do if Childermass fainted, right here, and had to be brought to a doctor? Would Mr. Norrell go the auction house himself? Would he call on Lascelles, or write him a letter in his own hand? No, no. Surely not. Mr. Norrell wouldn't know what to do if Childermass was ever to abandon him.

Childermass imagined it, at times. Something to keep him warm when his bones felt chilled or his eyes rimmed red. He might not be a wealthy man, but there was a power in being needed.

"I'll turn in early," he said. "But I'll get you your books first."

The relief in Mr. Norrell's face was a wonderful thing, if you enjoyed being needed.

\---

When Childermass got back to his room, he felt a shade of himself. Needed. Needed his eye. Exploited, that was more like it. How foolish he'd been, to charge out into the damp London morning to fetch Mr. Norrell's books and deliver his admonitions. Childermass should've stayed in bed this morning, and his job be damned. Mr. Norrell be damned. Let him fetch his own books, or stay in his library and read the thousands he already had.

Childermass collapsed on his bed. After a moment, he groaned and tried to take off his boots without rising or opening his eyes. Finally he gave up on the struggle and resolved to die in the most inconvenient way possible for anyone who had to undress him. They could deal with the knots in his shoelaces. It wasn’t his responsibility.

Someone knocked.

"Fuck off," croaked Childermass.

"Mr. Childermass!" said Hannah the maid, quite scandalized and delighted by it. "I'm only bringing you tea."

Childermass groaned again. Undeterred, Hannah opened his door and deposited a tray on his side table.

"There's tea with honey and lemon," she said. "And a bottle of patent medicine, and Mrs. Gather's made you a plaster for your throat. Mutton suet, rosin, and beeswax. I'm not sure it'll help, but it does smell disgusting."

"Thank you," said Childermass. "Lovely. Fuck off."

"And," said Hannah, "Mr. Norrell sent you a silver coin."

Childermass opened one eye. "What?"

Hannah displayed it. It looked old—Roman, perhaps, or ancient British. The letters on it had been worn away, and there was only the suggestion of a face in profile.

"He said to put it under your tongue," said Hannah, "and to sleep with it there."

Childermass took the coin. He'd probably choke on it, and then where would Mr. Norrell be? But he put it in his mouth, anyway. The metal was cool, and that coolness spread from his tongue to his throat, and up to his nose, making him shiver.

"Feel better?" asked Hannah. "Or are you going to swear at me again?"

Childermass picked up the patent medicine. Liquorice, vinegar, salad oil, treacle, and tincture of opium. Wonderful. He poured a healthy dose into his tea.

"How could I ever swear at my ministering angel?" he asked, tongue moving oddly around the coin in his mouth. "I feel better already."

\---

In the morning Childermass felt as good as new, and the coin was gone. He wondered if he'd swallowed it or if it had melted. He’d have to ask Mr. Norrell about that spell—or hunt for it in the library if, as was likely, Mr. Norrell didn’t want to tell him about it.

No matter. Childermass washed his face, decided not to bother with shaving, and went, quite happily for once in his life, to work.

It was astonishing, what a difference health made.


End file.
